No case to answer
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: Doyle begs Bodie to go above and beyond his call of duty


No case to answer

It was a foul night with rain lashing against the windscreen. Doyle driving, they were in pursuit of the gunmen along an isolated country road. Where were they trying to get to? The gang took the bend too fast and their car slid off the road. The gang threw themselves out of their car, firing as they went. Doyle slewed the car to the side and he and Bodie burst out to return fire. The two baddies hurtled into the woodland with the agents in hot pursuit, Doyle a few yards in front of his partner. They soon lost them in the darkness but their footfalls could still be heard and followed. Several minutes into the chase Doyle heard Bodie cry out and a body thumping to the ground. Doyle slid to a halt, almost falling over his feet. A second later, shots rang out. Without a moment's hesitation Doyle had thrown himself bodily in front of his partner and returned fire. The shoot-out didn't last long. After some silence, Doyle cautiously got to his feet and retrieved the gun which Bodie had dropped. "Fallen down a rabbit hole, Alice?" quipped Doyle tossing the gun back to his partner. A few expletives later, Bodie told his partner that he had trodden in a man-trap. Doyle, however, was wandering off to find any bodies – wounded or dead. As Bodie whimpered and swore in pain while extracting himself from the snare, Doyle returned to declare both opponents dead, but was nearly sure that there was a third man out there somewhere. He slowly knelt in front of his injured partner to see the damage.

"Don't do things by halves, do you Sunshine? Let's have a look." There was a lot of blood and Doyle felt along the shinbone. As his fingers explored further up Bodie's trouser leg, his patient felt inclined to comment: "It's fortunate that we know each other so well, sailor!" "Watch it," grinned Doyle, adding "Well, it doesn't feel broken, though there could be a linear fracture." "You try stepping in a man trap and say it doesn't hurt. Twisted my knee too," retorted Bodie. Doyle tutted unconvincingly, experimentally bent the knee to see how far it could go, then helped his friend to tie a tourniquet around the wound and got him slowly to his feet. They found a stout branch. With that in one hand and Doyle's shoulder in his other, Bodie was able to stagger an agonising inch at a time out of the wood. After a while he was beginning to lose direction. "We could be walking round in circles for the rest of our lives you know." "No, we're going in a straight line," returned Doyle confidently. "Ok, Kemo Sabe. How come?" "I'm following the moon." The pouring rain had turned to driving sleet. Bodie looked up, squinting against the elements, and commented that there was no moon. "Now you tell me," Doyle grinned smugly as the B-road appeared in front of them. Bodie could do nothing but shake his head in wonder at Doyle's navigational skills – but he wasn't going to congratulate his partner. His head needed shrinking as it was.

Doyle instructed Bodie to build a small cairn by the roadside to direct police into the wood later on to retrieve the bodies. While he was busy and painfully engaged in that, Doyle padded off to try to find the car – not knowing which way to try first or how far. Luck was on his side and he found the car after not many hundred yards. Bodie heard the car start up, stall after a few yards and start again. He grinned and would rib Doyle about his winter driving skills later. With the car eventually parked up, Bodie prised himself off the tree he was leaning against and headed towards the sanctuary of the passenger side. His leg felt on fire. The sleet had now turned to heavy snow but at least the searing wind had died down. To Bodie's puzzlement, Doyle switched off the car engine and got out. "Don't get in yet," he said, making his way to Bodie's side of the car. Then he just stood there looking at his partner. Bodie was getting very unsettled under the unrelenting gaze. "Either I've gone deaf," Bodie snapped, "or my powers of telepathy have fizzled out in the cold." After a few more heartbeats Doyle said quietly. "Bodie. I've been shot."

Of all the things Doyle might have said, Bodie hadn't expected that. It was his turn to stare back. He was going to ask when that had happened but, of course, it could only have happened back there in the woods when Bodie had fallen. His mind rapidly backtracked over the events of the last 20 minutes or so. Doyle had taken Bodie's weight through the woods, so the legs were sound. He'd helped with the tourniquet, so the upper limbs were ok, too. Doyle confirmed Bodie's fears when he said. "Lower ribs. Left side. The bullet's still there. I've found that I can't drive with it stuck in. I'd lose too much feeling in my legs to be able to drive far. I could try to take it out myself, but you'd make a better job. I'm really sorry." Bodie wondered what Doyle was sorry about – it wasn't his fault he'd been shot. In fact, the bullet had had Bodie's name on it.

"Look mate," Bodie countered, "We can get help. Flag down a passing car or something." "We haven't got a radio signal. You know that. You also know that a car hasn't passed this way for ages – we'd have heard it, seen it's lights." Bodie had to try again – there had to be another way. "Look …" "Bodie," Doyle cut in, "I'm not happy about this either, and I wish to God I didn't have to ask – and I do know what I'm asking of you – but there isn't another way. You know it. I know it. If we debate it any longer we're both going to die of blood loss or hyperthermia. I'm so sorry to ask." "Stop begging, Doyle. It doesn't suit you," Bodie yelled angrily. Doyle stared again. Bodie felt that Doyle was looking into his soul to see if the courage was there where he knew it should be.

"There's a first aid kit in the boot and there may be an inspection lamp too," Doyle said, being practical and heading off any further objections. "There isn't a surgical kit, a stacked nurse or any anaesthetic that I know of, but you can't have everything," he added, trying to lighten the mood. "Do you know what you're asking, Ray?" Bodie, the soldier, asked of his friend. "Yes, Bodie, I do." There seemed to be little fear in Doyle's voice, but more of a great sadness. Doyle fished in his back pocket and held something out to Bodie which he couldn't make out in the darkness. He shuffled forward to see better. It was Doyle's Swiss army knife. Bodie felt a different kind of coldness seeping into his spine. He slowly took the knife from his partner. He had now committed himself to this hare-brained scheme.

As Bodie shuffled to the back of the car, using it as a support, Doyle began taking off his jacket and jumper. The items were in the boot as Doyle had predicted. Bodie plugged the lamp into the cigarette lighter and tried it. He had half-hoped that it wouldn't work and they could abandon the scheme – though he could work with the car headlamps, which Doyle had left on as backup. He seemed to have thought of everything. By the time Bodie had dragged himself to the bonnet, Doyle was lying in front of the car with his shirt unbuttoned. Bodie checked the handbrake. It would be ironic if his 'patient' was run over before surgery could begin! Bodie opened the first aid kit. The item he was looking for most wasn't there – tweezers. He tossed the kit onto the road and slid down in the wet and the dirt next to his partner. It was awkward with a damaged leg to get into a proper position. Doyle lifted his tee-shirt and Bodie had an initial look with the lamp.

"I can see the bullet quite clearly between the ribs," Bodie announced. "I may be able to get it out with my fingers." Doyle just stared into the darkness. Bodie pushed the inspection lamp into Doyle's hand and explored the immediate area around the bullet. Doyle flinched at the first touch. "You've got cold hands, doctor," Doyle joked. Bodie grinned at the gallows' humour. He pushed down on either side of the bullet. The ribs didn't give much leeway, but he managed to get a bit of a grip on the bullet with his nails. He pulled, then wiggled, and pulled again. There was a sickening grind of a rib about to give way and the staggered breathing of his partner. "Sorry Doyle," he said. "It's just not shifting. I'm going to try with the knife. I hope it's clean." "Boiled it and sharpened it only this morning," Doyle lied between gritted teeth. "Sure," Bodie mumbled. The knife wouldn't go in broadways. It wouldn't fit between the gap in the ribs. He tried the knife-edge. It slipped in the blood and scratched a few inches into Doyle's side. Bodie apologised and said that he'd have to cut in alongside the bullet for more purchase. "Do what you need to," Doyle whimpered. "I wish I had your faith in my abilities," Bodie muttered. The knife wasn't very sharp and Bodie needed to press hard and brutally a few times before a wide enough incision was made to try to prise it out. The knife scratched the side of the bullet, but still it refused to move. Doyle was in serious pain and trying not to pant too much, but his breathing was strangled and painful to listen to, the muscles knotted. Bodie knew what he had to try next. He rehearsed it in his mind and it made him feel sick. He remembered what Doyle had often told him: thinking about it is worse than doing it. Well, the theory had come to the ultimate point now. "Ray. I'm going to have to try something radical, and it's going to hurt like hell." He didn't add: it may even kill you. "I admire your surgical skills, doctor," whimpered Doyle, "but your bedside manner needs a bit of work. Just get on with it."

"Dear God, forgive me," whispered Bodie into the night as he drove the knife into Doyle's side, twisted it to the flat side under the ribs, then drove upwards under the bullet. Doyle's scream split the night and he arched his back to an impossible angle. The arching and the thrusting of the knife had the combined effect of opening up the rib cage and the bullet popping out as easily as shelling peas. Bodie caught the bullet in his left hand, while the right reached out for the field dressing he had ready. Doyle lurched on his side away from Bodie, away from the agony. Bodie tried to get him to lie flat – more than anything, he wanted him unconscious – but Doyle fought him and vomited. Bodie let him on his side so as not to choke. Doyle relieved himself in the snow and only then allowed himself to be pushed back onto the tarmac. He drew his knees up to alleviate the pressure on his belly and cried in pain from the pulled muscles around his spine and the fire in his guts. Bodie fought with one hand and his teeth to open up other field dressings while pressing down with the other hand onto the wound which was bubbling up with blood. Doyle was trying hard to keep his breathing under control. Every deep breath was torture. Bodie had run out of dressings and still the bleeding wouldn't stop. Doyle persuaded Bodie that he should sit up. "Can't put a tourniquet on that, doctor," Doyle gasped "but tie the bandage as tight as you can." He dropped the lamp and pressed the dressings against his side as Bodie wrestled with the bandaging. Doyle breathed in as much as he could while Bodie strapped as tightly as possible. Doyle wretched again but remained conscious. "Don't ever ask me to pull a stunt like that again," Bodie yelled. He was furious and shaking and knew the reason why. Adrenaline needed to be released somehow. Bodie used the car as support as he awkwardly got to his feet. Doyle passed the kit up to him. Bodie threw it in the back of the car as if he didn't want it near him ever again. He handed down to Doyle who had got to his knees and took Bodie's help. They staggered to the respective sides of the car and both uttered oaths and groans as they folded their injuries into it.

It took Doyle a few moments to gather himself before starting up. Both were silent as the car drifted into the night. After several miles they passed through a little village which was closed and asleep and could offer them no assistance. Once through there, the car radio coughed. Both men looked at each other as though Zeus had suddenly made an announcement. Bodie took the radio mike cautiously. "3.7 to base. 3.7 to base." He didn't expect an answer, but a very crackly "… base" came through. Both agents began to giggle and knew they were very close to hysteria. Bodie collected himself and told base their position – geographical and medical. He asked advice on the nearest hospital with a surgical theatre. Base took a few minutes to get the information Bodie had asked for and directed them the 10 miles or so to their destination. While on the road to town, another call came through, loud and clear. "Cowley to 3.7." "Does that man ever sleep?" wondered Doyle aloud. Bodie acknowledged the call. "Bodie," Cowley began, "if you've got a broken leg and Doyle's been shot, who's driving the car?" Both men looked at each other in the darkness. Doyle smirked. _Answer that_, his eyes seemed to be saying. "I think it's between God and Providence," Bodie answered looking at Doyle, who looked back at him grinning. "Well, when God has directed you to the hospital, give me a call from there if you can and let me know your position. We have alerted the hospital." Bodie thanked him and signed off.

Doyle was clinging onto the steering wheel with both hands as though his life depended on it - which it probably did. He had become too weak to change gear and Bodie had to do the pushing of the gear lever while Doyle had his foot on the clutch. Several times Bodie had had to tell Doyle to ease off the gas. He had decreasing control over his lower limbs and was over-compensating. If ever this nightmare ended, Bodie would tease his partner about his driving. It seemed an eternity before they were finally turning into the car park. Doyle's breathing had become very laboured as he tried to suck as much air in as his ribs and bandages would allow. He sensed more than saw that they were at journey's end. To instil the fact, Bodie yelled an order for him to brake before they took out several parked cars. Doyle took a deep breath and stamped both feet on the brake and clutch pedals simultaneously. He let out an agonising cry at this attempt at gymnastics. Bodie was quick to use the situation and put the car in neutral while gently applying the handbrake in the slippery conditions. The car did a perfect circle, ending up pointing the way they'd come in. Doyle had lost consciousness and had banged up against the door as it pirouetted. Once stationary, Doyle slumped across the steering wheel, the horn blaring. Bodie eased Doyle's body into the car seat as the passenger door was yanked opened. Instinctively Bodie reached for his weapon, but was relieved to see a white-coated gent looking very anxiously in at him while staring down the muzzle of a gun. "Mr Doyle?" enquired the doctor shakily. "Bodie. That's Doyle. He's lost a lot of blood. He's been shot." He shouldered the gun back into its holster. Another two doctors were extracting the unconscious driver onto a stretcher while his colleague helped Bodie onto a gurney on his side of the car.

There was a race through the snow between the two 'teams'. The stretchers baulked against the snow. "Just carry the damn thing," shouted Bodie but was glad to see that Doyle's team was winning the race and were through the doors and out of sight before Bodie's. After that, it was all a blur to Bodie as morphine was administered and shock took hold.

Sometime later, much later, Bodie woke to find Cowley at his bedside. "Well, you've had a long sleep Bodie," came the all too familiar Scots' bur. "Doyle?" "All in good time." "For God's sake, tell me." "We had to keep you sedated until we knew that Doyle was out of danger. And he is. He'll make a good recovery, though the surgeons aren't very pleased with you at all. I'm quite convinced that when you drew out the bullet you knew exactly, as only a soldier could, what the consequences of that would be in those circumstances." "Yes," conceded Bodie. "I knew, but so did Doyle. That's why he didn't tell me. Not at first." "We'll talk later. You may make more sense then." Bodie tried to make sense of it there and then, but drugs and fever were still dragging him down and Cowley had more waiting to do before Bodie was fully awake.

"Are you ready to talk about it now?" Cowley soothed next day. Bodie was more than ready for a confession. He wasn't sure if it was going to ease his troubled soul, but he was anxious to give it a try. He explained to Cowley about the chase through the woods and the shoot-out. "If Doyle had been in the Army he'd have got a medal for throwing himself in front of the guns like he did," Bodie added. "Anyway, Doyle didn't say anything then about being injured. He seemed more concerned about ascertaining the baddies' condition and mine. Even when he got me to my feet and we were strolling through the woods together, he never said a word. All he got was me whining about my blasted leg. If I'd known …" "We'll come to that," Cowley said, "carry on."

"Well, how Doyle knew which way out of the forest, I've no idea." "God and Providence, perhaps?" suggested Cowley with a sly smile. Bodie returned with a shy smile of his own. "Perhaps," he conceded. "Anyway, the lucky sod even managed to find the car without much bother either. Your God was smiling then. But He seemed to have quickly developed a sick sense of humour when Doyle found that he couldn't drive with a bullet in him." Bodie went on to explain that Doyle had got out of the car and just stared at him. "It was as though he wanted to say something, but didn't know how to. Embarrassed? Frightened? I don't know. He just kept staring." "He knew the implications of what he was going to demand of you, didn't he?" "Yes, sir. I suppose he did. And he kept apologising. Not like Doyle at all." Cowley thought for a moment and Bodie paused while the Cow's machiavellian cogs turned. "I'm not sure that you understand all the implications even now, Bodie. But I believe Doyle did. He had more time to think on it." Bodie asked for an explanation, but Cowley put him off, wanting to hear the rest of it.

So Bodie described the roadside surgery and said that there should have been an alternative to all this. "From the moment you made it to the road to the time you set off in the car, and even while you were driving, did any car pass you by?" "No, sir." "Then you couldn't have relied on Providence to provide you with a knight in shining armour, could you?" "No, sir." "And with a broken leg and no radio, you couldn't have done anything there, either?" "No, sir." "So, conclusion, you couldn't have done anything other than what you were asked to – to get the bullet out and let Doyle get on with the driving." "I suppose …" "No 'suppose' about it." "Look, it's not that black and white," Bodie exploded. "From the knees up, I was in perfect shape. Not even in much pain. There was Doyle, bleeding to death in front of my eyes, and fighting for every breath, and having to do all the work." "And, again, what could you – or he – have done differently?" "I don't know," Bodie replied sullenly. He wasn't prepared to be forgiven yet.

"And what did Doyle see that I haven't even worked out yet?" Bodie was angry with himself for his obtuseness. As though reading his mind, Cowley said, "I'm guessing Bodie, you'll have to ask Doyle yourself whether I'm right, but I'm trying to see the situation through his eyes. You said that when he wandered off immediately after the shooting it was to ascertain whether the gunmen were dead or wounded. I think that was only part of it. He was buying himself some private time to get over the initial shock and pain of his injuries, and also to work out how to get you both back to civilisation. He may not have come to any conclusion in that short time, so he gnawed at the problem as you walked through the woods. He probably thought or hoped that he could drive in his condition but had to quickly re-evaluate when he realised that he couldn't. You say that he had difficulty telling you that he'd been shot. Yes, it was probably both fear and embarrassment, but also something else. Doyle was also afraid of asking this of you because if he had died on the road that night – as was very likely - there would have been no witness to confirm that your intentions had been honourable; that you were trying to save a life not take one. If you'd survived there would be a body in the road and you next to it with a bloody knife in your hand. How do you think you could explain that? It was that image which had frightened Doyle more than the pain which was going to come during the 'operation'. Now do you understand?" "Dear God," Bodie breathed. "I never saw that one." "Unto the pure, all things are pure," quoted Cowley, adding, "Also Doyle had more time to think it over than you did."

Cowley left Bodie nursing his new-found conscience, and went to see Doyle again. He was still unconscious and rigged up to various tubes and a heart monitor but no longer, Cowley was relieved to note, on a ventilator. The surgeon came bustling in a few moments later. "Are you a relative?" he enquired sharply. "Mr Cowley. Next of kin," came the smooth response. The surgeon was in no mood to be placated. "He's doing well considering the butchery he's undergone," the surgeon raged. "And that butcher should be charged with attempted murder. No less than that. Attempted murder. Look at him." "I think we should get the facts first, don't you, before we start bandying accusations about?" "The facts speak for themselves. This man was shot and stabbed. He lost over three pints of blood. Shock, hyperthermia …" "Yes, yes. But let's look at the circumstances shall we." Even Cowley's repetition of Bodie's account did little to sooth the doctor.

When Cowley returned later that evening to Bodie's bedside, he bumped into a man also heading for the same destination. They arrived at the bed together. "Are you Mr William Bodie?" asked the stranger. Bodie didn't need to guess if he was a policeman. With an opening question like that he had to be. Bodie confirmed that he was and the man introduced himself as DS Steele. "I have reason to believe that you attempted to murder a Mr Doyle. Is that correct?" Bodie shook his head. He was too shaken to be angry. Doyle's vision, if Cowley was correct, was terrifyingly accurate. "May I ask," said Cowley, "where you got that impression from?" Steele refused to name his sources but, under Cowley's probing, did admit that it was a member of the medical staff. "I understand from this person that Mr Doyle is dangerously ill," Steele continued, "and not expected to survive as a direct result of a knife wound penetrating a major blood vessel. In short, what the bullet failed to do the stabbing succeeded – or is pretty soon likely to." Bodie turned terrified eyes to Cowley. This was not what Cowley had led him to believe. Cowley had lied to him. Did he think he was being kind and compassionate when he told him that Doyle was making a good recovery? Bodie began to feel his anger rising now and mentally cursed Cowley with every name – English and otherwise – that he could think of. Cowley took it all in his stride. Very little shook the man. "I'll get Bodie a wheelchair and we'll all take a wee stroll shall we?" he said, taking action to the word.

Bodie tore off the bed sheets and painfully prised himself towards the edge of the bed. He was shaking and, wearing only thin hospital pyjamas, felt vulnerable and exposed in front of the stranger who had done nothing to help him – not that Bodie would have accepted it. Cowley came back a few minutes later. He handed over his coat to Bodie, more to hide his discomfort than for warmth, helped him into the wheelchair, and they set off. Bodie noticed that they were making for the intensive care wards, and braced himself for the worst. He couldn't lose Doyle, not again. However, Cowley steered them past the department and took them on to the surgical wing. A nurse was coming out of a small side ward clutching a clipboard. Cowley stopped her and asked after Doyle. She countered by asking if they were relatives. Cowley declared himself next of kin and, patting Bodie's shoulder, presented him as Doyle's brother. Steele he didn't explain. The nurse was still wary and asked Bodie if he was aware of his brother's injuries. "We know he's been shot and wounded," Cowley interrupted. The nurse became more relaxed. "He was in a bad way when he first came to us, and was moved to intensive care after surgery. He was in shock and had lost a great deal of blood, but responded well and was transferred after 24 hours to the surgical ward here," she said pointing to the door she'd just come out of. "We still need to keep an eye on him, and he does need feeding up a bit if you don't mind me saying so," she added staring at Doyle's new-found brother. Bodie swallowed hard and mumbled that Doyle was a picky eater and he's see what he could do to help. The events were tumbling thick and fast and Bodie was having difficulty keeping up with the emotions dragged out of him. He felt physically sick and the shaking hadn't stopped.

"I understand," Cowley purred – he could be very suave when he chose to be – "that Ray had lost a massive amount of blood because of a severed blood vessel. Will he recover from that? I believe it's very serious." The nurse looked puzzled and referred to her notes. "No, sir," she said, "There was a small incision made by a knife – when the bullet was removed – causing some internal bleeding, but I wouldn't say that the vein was severed or seriously compromised at all. The bullet of course should have been left where it was. It was reckless to say the least to have even tried to get it out, but no acute internal injuries came of it. There was blood loss, of course, and shock. But your brother will be alright sir," she added, turning to Bodie with a reassuring smile. "You can see him for a few minutes if you like. He's still under morphine, but we're weaning him off that. He should be awake tonight or tomorrow morning. You may want to wait till then." Wild horses wouldn't make Bodie wait and he thanked the nurse. As she retreated down the corridor the trio entered the room. Doyle was nearly as white as the sheets he was lying on. His face was gaunt and his eyes looked bruised and sunk deep into his head. "Take note," Cowley said quietly to no-one in particular, "no respirators, no life support. We'll leave Bodie for a few minutes alone now." Without waiting for a response, Cowley escorted Steele from the room who allowed himself to be led away.

Alone, Bodie pushed himself closer to the bed and took Doyle's hand. It was cold to the touch but the fingers began to curl slowly around Bodie's. Bodie placed his other hand on top of it. "Doyle?" The dark eyes fluttered. "Bodie?" "Well, it's not Kimo Sabe." "I'm sorry, Bodie." "Stop saying that. I hate it when you're docile!" Doyle grinned and attempted to say more but his throat was too dry. Bodie noticed a glass of water on the locker and almost managed to get Doyle to a sitting position to drink it. He nearly choked as he slurped it down greedily. "Hey, it's not on ration you know." Doyle relaxed back into the pillows and looked deeply at his partner. "Bodie, I'm glad you were there. Not just for the obvious reason, but because you're the only man I know who'd have the courage to do what I had no right to ask of you." Bodie hated it even more when his emotions were exposed to the light. "Look," Bodie exploded, "next time you get shot, Doyle, for God sake tell me, then keep your bloody injury to yourself. I don't want to see that scarred, hairy chest again. Ok?" Doyle chuckled idiotically. "Oh, and by the way," Bodie added, "the nurse seems to think I'm your brother." "That's nice," Doyle said drowsily and drifted off to sleep.

While Bodie and Doyle were together, Cowley had guided Steele to a quiet corner of the corridor and repeated Bodie's tale. "I've heard your, or rather, Mr Bodie's side of things," Steele said. "I've listened to the doctor's accusations, and I've seen for myself this patient who's meant to be at death's door. I've also seen the accused and 'victim' together just now. Quite honestly, Mr Cowley, I believe that there is no case to answer, no case at all." Cowley watched Steele walk away towards the exit.

7


End file.
